Winsol Season
by Min Daae
Summary: Karla and Morton discuss Jaenelle, Hobart, Winsol, and plans thereof. Karla has fears that are unfortunately justified. Set during Daughter of the Blood. ONESHOT.


Morton opened the door to Karla's room to resounding silence. He looked around, brows drawing down. The bed was neatly made, nothing on the floor. It didn't look like Karla's room at all. But Karla was good at illusions.

"Karla?" he said, quietly. "It's me, Morton. I'm back, they let me come home."

Silence for several moments and then a voice from the open window – or rather, the plum tree outside it. "I'm out here."

"All right, I'm coming out," he warned her. There was no answer. He went to the window and clambered out on a branch. He could see her now – up a bit, one arm wrapped around the trunk. Her hair stuck out in all directions. He couldn't see her face.

Clambering up, Morton sat down gingerly next to her. "Karla?"

She turned and looked at him, her face red and blotchy. She'd been crying. Her icy blue eyes dared him to mention it. He didn't.

Stupidly, "Your room is clean."

"S'not my room anymore."

"…what?" It had always been Karla's room. Since they were both small. Back when their parents were still alive. "What do you mean it's not-"

"Hobart moved me. He says I'm too big for it."

"Uncle Hobart," he corrected her. Her eyes chilled.

"No, not Uncle Hobart. He'll never be family. _You're _my family, Morton. You and Jaenelle. That's it."

"Karla?" Hesitantly. "What happened?"

"Nothing." He saw her draw her shoulders up, hunching her back defensively.

"It's not-"

"If I tell you you'll get mad and then _he _will make you go away again."

"But, Karla…I don't want to be a, a chain on you."

"No, Morton," and there was something tired in her voice. "You're never going to be a chain to me. You're all I have."

"All right." A pause. "I missed you, Karla."

She leaned over and hugged him tightly. "I missed you more." And there was something sad and forlorn about it. "Jaenelle came when you were gone."

"You don't sound happy about that."

"I'm worried about her. She's so skinny."

"So are you."

"But I have you to make me eat." She paused. "I feel like something bad is going to happen. Something terrible."

"Why don't you ask a Tangled Web?" Worriedly. Jaenelle was his, too.

"It would answer me," she said softly. A brief silent. "Winsol's coming."

"We should go ice skating. Sneak out. We don't have to stay here this year."

The ghost of a smile. "I'd like that."

"Then we'll do it," he said firmly. "And Uncle Hobart will never know, either. And when Jaenelle comes back, we can tell her all about it. And go together. Has she ever been ice skating?"

The ghost of a smile flickered a little more. "No…"

"Then we'll teach her. After Winsol. When's she going to visit again?"

The smile fell away. "She didn't say."

"Oh." Morton shut his mouth. The only time Jaenelle wouldn't say when she could visit again was when she was going to Briarwood, or thought she would.

Karla swore, abruptly. "Damn, damn, dammit, I _hate _it! It's not fair. We should go there. Go there and break her out, and kill all of them. They deserve it. And let her go free and she can come home with us and we can hide in the mountains…"

"She made us promise."

Karla looked down. "...I know. But knowing she's there…"

"I know." They sighed together, hearts heavy.

Morton tried to lift the mood. "She'll be back. After Winsol. You know she can't get away during Winsol. And we'll share a cup for her. And dance, too, for Witch."

Karla nodded, but said nothing.

"She'll be back, won't she?"

Karla was quiet for a long time. She slipped her hand into his and looked down at her swinging feet and the ground below. "I don't know. Morton?"

He scooted closer. "Yeah?"

"Let's not go inside. Just sit out here with me for a while."

"Okay."

She leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed, her eyes faraway from him. "Thanks. Just for a little while, pretend with me that everything's okay."

"Everything will be okay, Karla."

She didn't answer, humming something under her breath. It sounded like a dirge, a song of mourning, and Morton didn't dare ask who she mourned for.


End file.
